Writer
by chocoholicbookworm
Summary: She is in love with me, though only through my writing... short RemusOC. Now a twoshot. Please read!
1. Writer

A/N: I've always imagined Remus as a writer. I get a perfect picture of him holding a quill, his face scrunched up in though as he searches for the perfect inspiration. This is RemusOC, during the MWPP era. Reviews are very welcome. Flames are not.

This is for all writers who are in the same situation as Remus and I.

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I write for her everyday. I write poems that tell her how I feel, songs that I probably will never sing, verses and stanzas that reveal all my emotions. When I write, I seek inspiration, and I always end up thinking of her. I remember every smile on her face, and every conversation in the hallways. When I write about her, everything seems so clear. When I write about her, I am in a fantasy world, a world where there is actually a possibility of some form of reciprocation. This is why I love to write; when I write, I am in a world of my own, a world easier to face than reality. This is why I love to write, why I write for her everyday.

Reality is such a difficult world to live in. In my world of poems, stories and songs, I hold her close to me and kiss her under the night's sky, dappled with stars and absent of a moon. In the real world, my existence, though not unknown, is something trivial for her. In my world of fantasy, there is every possibility of us getting together. In reality, there is no chance because she doesn't know what I am and won't accept me if she knew, much less love me.

There are times when I want to stop writing, to take down the world I've created, and in doing so, kill these fantasies and unrealistic dreams, and return to the real world, a world of logic. Yet, as I see her each day, inspiration floods my senses – and my logic – like an addictive drug. I get a new fantasy to add to my world, new false hope to fuel my creative train of thought.

So I continue to write, even if I risk mixing a world of miserable logic and illogical bliss in the process. I send her some of the poems, unsigned, occasionally with a rose. It takes a lot of my effort to suppress my smile as she tells all her friends how in love she is with the mystery guy who sends her these poems. I long to tell her that "Mystery Guy" loves her as well, but I hold my tongue, knowing that it's best that these feelings remain hidden.

Every time I see that she likes what I've written, I am thrown into a world of pure bliss. Her opinion of what I've written will always, always, always matter more than any review even the most famous critic may give. This is because a critic's review make an improbable dream come true; somehow, her opinion can.

You see, my dream is for her to reciprocate my feelings. As I observe her as she reads my work, her eyes have the same fire that I see in mine whenever I think of her. It is this fire that makes me content.

She is in love with me, though only through my writing. That is enough for me.


	2. Reader

A/N: This is the second chapter to "Writer". Remus' P.O.V. was sort of like mine, so I tried to think of how I'd feel if I were at the receiving end of all this affection. I came up with this; it's from the P.O.V. of the girl Remus likes. It's sad, like the first chapter, so don't expect any happy endings. I also will not be adding any more chapters. This is the LAST one.

I'd like to thank my beloved beta, Ashantelle for beta reading. Please read her fic; it's entitled "It's the Other Me Talking".

So, without further ado, here is Chapter 2 to "Writer". Reviews are, as always, appreciated.

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I know he writes everyday. I know he sent those poems. I don't understand why, though. I don't understand why he feels for me this way, why I am at the receiving end of all this affection. I neither like nor dislike it, but that's because you can't like or dislike things you don't understand.

When I read what he gives me, I see a world hidden beneath the lines of words he uses to express his love for me. It is a world where there is real beauty, where everything, no matter how improbable, is possible. Sometimes, as I read his poems, I fall into this world, where it is only him and me. Every time I fall into this world, I never want to leave, because this world is grander and happier than the real world.

There are times when I want to stop reading. Whenever I read, I find myself wishing that this world was real. That makes it much harder to snap back to reality. I wish that the dreams are reality and reality was a mere dream. I greatly envy him; he has a world to run to when reality starts growing unbearable.

So I write. I seek inspiration from anything and everything, from things big and small, from all the people around me. I write, and every time I read what I've written, I feel a great wave of disappointment besiege me.

I'll never be as good as him. I'll never create my own world through my writing. I won't have a world of my own to serve as my hideaway when I no longer can take the cruelty of the world. I dream that one day, I too will have a world to run to.

So I resolve to love him. He somehow made my dream come true. Every time I read his poems I have a wonderful world to run to.

I love him very much, even if it's only through his writing. I hope that's enough for him.


End file.
